


Unforgivables

by zeldadestry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-01
Updated: 2005-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:08:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an Auror has changed Alice and she can't stand it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unforgivables

Avada Kedavra is not the only curse that kills. Applied correctly, Cruciatus can murder as well. In a duel, it is rare that one's wand ever physically touches one's opponent. Questioning captive suspects, however, has provided the Aurors ample opportunity to experiment with new and original tactics. The Cruciatus, when one is pressing the tip of their wand into the chest or the throat of the opponent, can kill just as well as Kedavra. In fact, it may be said that it kills better, for, unlike Kedavra, which is a painless passing, a Cruciatus applied directly results in an extremely long and painful panic that lasts as long as the victim's heart does. The threat of it is extremely effective in breaking a difficult subject during interrogation.

Of course, these are not the sorts of things they tell you when, after all the trials, they finally offer you the coveted job. They spin the tale of how brave you are, how noble. They assure you, in formal ceremonies and over drinks at the pub, that you are offering your substantial gifts, your substantial powers, solely for the purpose of protecting your fellow Wizards. They make you believe that you are an agent, an angel, of peace. When war comes, the halo crumples and you tumble back to earth. You are nothing but their soldier.

Anyone who is accused of being a Death Eater or loyal to Voldemort can be arrested and brought in for questioning. You hear rumors and you bring in suspects, you work them until they give you more names, and then it begins all over again.

You didn't know it was possible to be allergic to Veritaserum. You had no idea what was happening when she started to convulse. "She was a traitor," Rufus said, "forget about it." He steered you back to your cubicle with an iron grip.

Moody was sympathetic. He told you it wasn't your fault and suggested you go home for the rest of the night. "I think I should," you told him, "thank you."

Frank stopped you while you were putting on your coat to leave. He spoke too loudly, like he wanted to be overheard, when he said, "Rufus is right, you know. You can't start feeling sorry for them now."

"I don't feel sorry for anyone," you said. When you said it, it was a lie, but now it's like a horrible promise you made to him. Each day you feel the truth of it seep a little deeper into your heart.

You think you know now why they wear masks. It is not only a practical means of obscuring their identities. No. It is so that when they are back home, with their families, they can look in the mirror and see someone else. They can pretend they are not always the same person, the same murderer. They want to execute without becoming executioners. It is a double proof of their cowardice. They can not bear the truth of who they are and hide it not only from others, but from themselves. You understand it, of course. If you could use someone else's hands to do your job, you would.

Two months ago, Frank killed one of them. It was in self-defense and you could have forgiven it, except that after the battle was finished he walked over and kicked the corpse.

You used to wake up in the morning to find the curtains thrown open and his hand winding its way up your thigh, his lips suckling at your neck. Now he comes up behind you in the dark and grabs your tits roughly with both hands. At first he would say, "get on your hands and knees," but you follow orders well, and now as soon as he touches you, you fall. It's better this way. You don't like to look at him anymore.

The Witch died with her eyes open. They were green, like Lily's.

Lily's here right now, in front of you, sitting on your kitchen counter and eating chocolate ice cream out of a little blue bowl that used to belong to your grandma. She takes a big scoop of ice cream up in her spoon and eats half of it before holding the remainder out to you. Your lips part and she slides the bite into your mouth. The metal is cold against your tongue and the chocolate flavor is rich. You're not looking at her, but you can feel her stare. "I'm so glad you're home," she says. "It seems like you're always working and we never see each other."

You don't answer that. Being with Lily is a good way to forget. You would never want to talk to her about your work. You want her to keep looking at you like she is now, now that you dare to glance at her, like you are as sweet as the ice cream, sweeter.

"Alice, Alice in Wonderland," she says, putting the bowl aside and leaning forward to put her hands on your shoulders. "What's wrong?" She always used to call you that, Alice in Wonderland, it's some Muggle thing and you still don't understand. She showed you a picture once, a drawing of a blonde girl in a blue dress and a purple cat with a big grin on a tree branch above her. It didn't make any sense, but it made you happy when Lily stood beside you, looking down at the picture and sighing as she recalled how much she loved that story as a little girl.

"Nothing's wrong," you say. She's wearing her Muggle clothes. She does that sometimes. Tonight it's a blue skirt that stops right below her knees and a thin blue shirt that clings to her body, her breasts. You understand the message when she pulls her skirt up over her knees and slides back a bit on the counter, her thighs parting. You wonder if when you look up to her face, you'll see that same small smile of invitation she wore back then, when you were together at Hogwart's. You know she's probably remembering, just like you are. Back then she sat on the edge of your bed, opening up the skirt of her dress, displaying it to you. It was ruby red and pleated and cut like this one, just below her knees, framing the soft curves at the back of her calves, the sharp line of the shin bone bisecting each leg. Velvet ribbons were tied in a bow around her waist, cinching it tight and making her a perfect hourglass, her shoulders as wide as her hips. Her hands slowly stroked down the dress. "It's so soft, Alice, come touch." You walked towards her when she said that, and as you stood in front of her she took your hand and pressed it against her chest. The fabric was soft, as she said, and you slid your hand all the way down the dress, down her body, to grab her inner thigh, right above her knee. She pressed her thighs together, as if hoping to trap your hand. She tilted her head up to you. She said, "you'll kiss me, won't you, Alice?"

Tonight she says, "what is it? Am I not pretty anymore? Don't you want to look at me?" She's teasing you.

You don't raise your eyes. You just rest your fingertips against her knees. There's a scar on the left one, a little dimple, like maybe she fell on gravel, once. You bend your head down to kiss it, to touch your tongue to the indentation. Her hands come down and tangle in what's left of your hair. It was long, but you keep it short now because it's easier. It's never in your face, and if a battle is unexpected, that's crucial. Now that one of her hands is stroking the nape of your neck, you could almost be glad it's shorter.

"Alice," she whispers, and there's a pain in her voice that makes you raise your head to look at her. She's flushed already, and her lips are parted, her teeth biting down on the pink flesh of her mouth. You've tried not to think of this, of what it was like with her, back then. You remember, of course you do, but you've tried to put all your good memories away, just for now. You tell yourself that when the war is over, you'll unpack them, enjoy them again, but for now, you don't let yourself look at them. You don't want to spoil them by looking at them with hateful eyes. "Alice," she says again, and you wish she'd stop saying your name, you wish she hadn't come here. "Alice," her fingers brush across your cheek, "Alice, don't cry." You hadn't realized you were. You turn your head away as you wipe at your face with the heel of your palm. When was the last time? There is no space for mourning. They announce the casualties and then send you out on your mission, often times with not even a moment to grieve. At first you thought it was better that way. You're strong, you can take it, just keep working, keep going, you'll be able to put it out of your mind. Except you can't, of course. It's here, with you, whenever you have a moment to yourself, a moment of quiet. No peace anywhere. Work or home, you struggle. Even your dreams are bloody. Lily pushes off the counter and hops down to stand beside you, to take you in her arms, and you drop your head so that in rests on her shoulder. You're not crying anymore, and you press your face against her neck. Her arms wrap around your waist, and she's talking softly, just like she did back then. "I've missed you. I remember how you touched me, how slowly your hands moved. I've tried to touch myself like that, tried to pretend it's you, but it's not the same."

"You don't want my hands, not anymore."

"Why not?"

You never lie. You never have. Even after all you've seen, what you've done, you would be ashamed to lie. "I've killed people."

"Oh, Alice, Alice in Wonderland, I know you only did it because you had to, for self-defense, right?"

"Would that make it alright? Would that make a difference?"

"Of course."

"I don't know." You don't. The day you decided you would kill someone if you had to, that day you did become a murderer in your own mind. In your own soul. All the same, you bring your hands to her face, holding her still as you lean forward to brush your lips against hers.

As you kiss her, one of your hands trails down the soft inside of her arm, your fingers linger over the crease at the elbow, and she pulls her lips away to murmur, "you feel the same, you feel so good."

"I'm not the same," you say, but you don't know if she listens, because now your hand is under her shirt, your thumb is stroking the tip of her nipple, and even if she did hear you, you don't think she would understand. Maybe that's why you're touching her, so that she won't really think about this, about you, about what you've admitted to her, and why you were crying. She's still blushing. She never looks more beautiful than when there's blood rising in her cheeks. You have to kiss her again. You have to press your mouth against her parted lips, you have to take your hands to her hair, pulling at the bobby pins that have fastened it up and away from her face, pulling them out, roughly, hurrying, so that she yelps, and you see in your hand that some of her hair has been pulled out. You gaze at the gold pin you're holding, seeing the strands of her hair held captive, and you slide it into your pocket. You're going to keep it forever.

Yes, you know how it should be. If only your hands, touching her body gently, reverently, could have absorbed everything that was good in her. If only touching her could have made them clean.

But what's done can not be undone. Who you were can not be recovered.

In the end, you don't even keep the gold pin, you don't keep the twined strands of her red hair.

You burn them, along with everything else you'd kept as memories of better days, and you reach your fingers out to the flames so that the tips singe. They blister and make it hard to hold your wand, but while they're swollen you imagine that when the skin peels off, they'll be new. You imagine it for a day or two, and then you give it all up.

You are not a girl anymore. You are not noble, nor good. You are a soldier and you have a soldier's hands. You could cut them off and it would not make any difference.

Touch Lily, touch Frank, touch the dead witch lying on the cement floor of the holding cell. You never even knew her name. Touch them all, with the same hands.

You wanted to help. You wanted to protect and to serve. Let that stand for something, let that prove the purity of your intentions.

Touch your belly and think of your child. Tell yourself that you have done this for him or her, so that they may live their life, all their life through, in peace.

Please, please, tell yourself that. Let yourself love this child. Even if you can not love yourself, not any longer, love your child.


End file.
